


Shadows Die Twice

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 13:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14379738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Robert is slain and the Baratheon have fallen. This is the first line she enters in her diary with trembling fingers in the low light of the bleeding sun.AU! War never truly ends. It is simply broken by fleeting moments of peace. So Lyanna learn at her own peril.





	Shadows Die Twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 262 AL, Winterfell

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Robert is slain and the Baratheon have fallen._

This is the first line she enters in her diary with trembling fingers in the low light of the bleeding sun. It’s orange rather than yellow, might be even red. Like blood. She wonders if Robert suffered tremendously and chides herself for asking such foolish questions after. The man had fortune on his side; Storm’s End has been captured by the King’s army and the gods only know what he does to the pitiful creatures within.

She keeps writing, her fingers moving through the motions with practiced ease. To think she loathed the exercise when the maester first assigned it to her. Walys Flowers does not read these lines. He will comment however on other assignments he gives her, such as labelling the jars in the small chamber wherein they are crammed upon shelves, or keeping a neat account book for the kitchens. Ostensibly, he will pester her about keeping up correspondence with Lady Cassana whenever a missive arrives.

Her eyes involuntarily stray to the latest one. Lady Cassana takes pride in her eldest son. She’s written about his exploits on the field of battle and praises his bravery, although her hand in subtle and her wit hidden beneath layers of platitudes and strange anecdotes. Lyanna knows what the woman hoped; that she would warm up to Robert, that her heart would accept him, even if only a smidgeon. She would laugh to think her heart so easily tamed, although to be fair, it did pound somewhat strangely when first she’d seen the man.

But Lyanna is the sort of creature whose heart engages but a moment before her mind takes over. A handsome face will not take care of her children, nor will it look after her needs. She has not replied to that letter yet because as far as she is concerned, Robert’s prowess is a futile exercise in hewing down her walls.

Yet he lies slain somewhere, caked with blood and mud, and her heart, stern yet not stone, quivers in regret. He was yet young. He might have changed. For her? She catches the foolish thought and brutally pushes it out of existence. Her fingers return to the quill and the writing. She calls this her diary, but it would be more accurate to say it is the willing recipient of her joys and frustrations. Although she thinks there are more lines of frustration than anything else. How could there be aught else?

Her aunt’s voice rings in her ears, the words taunting and bitter, meant to hurt. _“Had you been meant for greatness, you would have been born a son.”_  She wants to think it’s only envy. Yet there is some accuracy to it. The sort of glory Lyanna wants is easier to achieve as a son.  What she does realise, however, is that want is not need. She might well wish to ride into battle with her brothers, but she is not so naïve as to think she’d be anything but a burden to them were she fool enough to follow through.

Battles are where men go to die. She does not want to die. Father would say she is the daughter of half-measures and he would not be mistaken. Lyanna sighs. Another wish she has is that she were a little more decided in character. Brandon is the one with wolf blood running through his veins; Lyanna had but a small touch. Ned is serious and dependable; she does just enough for it to be proper. Benjen has burning determination; Lyanna merely firms in her refusal of Robert, in aught else she will allow the decision to others.

She does not think of herself as a contrary child; the trouble she causes is minimal. But neither is she a good daughter. Her mind screams at her to pick path and stick to it. She cannot be straddling fences for the rest of her life. Yet here she is, sitting her fence, writing in her diary about her impression of a war her eyes have never seen. The North is too remote for bloody battles. Sometimes there are deserters though.

She has seen one or two of them brought in chains. They throw them in the dungeon and for a time they are allowed to wither away in such harsh accommodations. Lyanna does not go down there. She had been once already and finds that insalubrious floors, rank smells and pitiful cries turn her stomach. It is no less than those men deserve though.

From Robert to common soldiery; a small smile curls her lips. It is unbecoming to write such dispassionate lines when her betrothed has been hewn even as he lay there waiting for his end. She ought to show more compassion. If only she had more to spare than the slight sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, a knot of unease twisting her innards unbearably. It is only a fraction of what she ought to be feeling.

The door opens with a creak and she only has to turn her head to see the intruder. Lady Lyarra watched her daughter with sad eyes. The flush of illness lingers upon her sunken cheeks. She stands in one sharp movement, and she can almost swear she hears the snap of the folds as they fall into place. “Lady mother, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I cannot find your father anywhere.” She forgets sometimes even that Lyanna herself in her daughter.

Approaching cautiously, Lyanna reaches out, “He has gone to war, lady mother. He rides with your sons.” A look of consternation crosses Lyarra Stark’s face.

“What are you saying? They are merely children.” Before she can offer any reply, Maester Walys makes his appearance, leading Lady Lyarra away with the promise of an explanation and a missive from her husband. Lyanna watched them go.

She hates it when her mother is like this. So unpredictable and so very annoying. She doesn’t want to know about the imperfections in the woman’s marriage. She doesn’t want her ideals tarnished any further.     

What can she do?

It is much later, once she lies beneath the furs that the door creaks once more. Her ire rises gently, child of heal-measures that she is, and Lyanna listens with her eyes firmly closed for the ghostly whooshes of her thin cloth. She did not disappointed. The mattress dips beneath the additional weight and slender arms wrap about her. “Branda, are you awake?” The urgent whisper pierces her sleep-fogged mind. She wishes she slept like the dead. “Branda.”

Opening her lids ever so gently, she turns an unseeing glare upon the intruder. “’Tis late.” It doesn’t matter how she tries to convince the woman of it, she will never accept that she does not speak to her sister now. “I am tired.” The words sound feeble to her own ears, untrue and deceitful. Hardening herself against the natural onset of regret she bites into the bitter fruit of deception with relish. She was not the one who started it.

“They’re forcing me to wed him.” There is a hitch in her breath. Lyanna closes her eyes. “It’s not like he needs to wed any of us to begin with. How greedy can one man be? Branda, can’t you take me with you?” Her teeth gnash together and she turns her back upon the woman. “I won’t cause trouble.”

“Go to sleep,” Lyanna snaps. There is shuffling at her back. A heaviness settles upon her, pressing her into the mattress with uncomfortable consequences. Her mother flings an arm about her waist, her soft breaths scalding the back of her neck. The woman’s fingers splay against her stomach, almost as though she seeks to  feel something. It’s useless, of course. She is not Branda Stark, after all. Her lips tighten in displeasure at the stroking.

“I am certain you will have a fine son,” Lyarra speaks. “I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble.” Most deserving of her remorse is not her, but the man she so plainly hates. A good man. “I just wish mother would listen to what I have to say as well.” Lyanna doesn’t remember Arya Stark very well. There is a vague recollection of warm smiles and sweet cherries, but other than that her grandmother is a stranger. “You were very brave. Why can’t I be more like you?” Lyanna makes no response. The knot in her throat tightens and she brings her knuckles to the grim line of her mouth pressing against the sounds seeking liberation. “Branda?” If she could just hold out a little longer. “Have you fallen asleep?”

There are no more words after. Her mother simply tightens her hold, as though Lyanna were the security blanket she has long been searching for and her breathing patterns out until it is fairly regular, uncontrolled and decidedly indicative of slumber. Relief floods her. Lyanna stays as she is for a few more minutes before she begins itching for an escape.

Evading is an acquired skill. She moved with uneasy diligence until she managed to unwind her mother’s fingers from the cloth of her garment and push the entire arm away. Slowly, so as to not wake her, she slips out of bed, her feet meeting carpet. The roughness of the rushes scratches against the bareness of her skin and she blindly searches for the slippers. They are where she has left them and Lyanna hastily puts them on.

From here it is much easier. The well-oiled hinges of the door do not creak overloud when she leaves. The hallway seems somehow strange in the low glows of the sconces, but she traverses it nonetheless, eager for solitude. The chamber she reaches receives her with open arms and an unlocked door. She enters without hesitation, bringing down the bar once she is assured of relative comfort.

Her eyes naturally fall to the most magnificent piece in the chamber. It is not the original furniture, for though there is a rotting frame stores somewhere away, this bed comes from the South. It seems out of place, with its minute detailed carvings, in the otherwise sparse environment. How many lords of Winterfell had lain to rest upon it? How many had been born and died within it? She climbs it with some apprehension and draws the furs about her shoulder. The sweet honeyed scent of her mother’s soaps clings to the inside of her nostrils when her head hits the pillow. Close by is the fainter, faded scent of her father, something strong and comforting, Lyanna thinks, her body moving over to his side of the bed. It feels more comfortable in this spot, where she is protected. As much as father will protect her, in any event.

She dared not think too long upon it before, but since sleep did not seem to return, she had to. Robert is dead and the Baratheon have fallen. It is a grievous defeat, so much so that she wonders what the Prince will do. It was Robert who aligned himself with the heir to the throne; how foolish of him not to have protected himself better. Did he trust there would be other men to pick up if he fell? As for her, she will doubtlessly have to wed the younger brother, the graceless one. Although it could be this is a blessing; Stannis has yet to lie about his nature.  If he lives. The last one is much too young to wed, although who knows how far her father is willing to push matters.

If not, who else is there? Vassals, of course. There are plenty of those. She prefers none to the others. Unlike her lady mother Lyanna had no prior engagement to lament. She settles in a firmer manner against her pillows and turns until she lies on her back, eyeing the dark ceiling blankly. No matter how she looks at it, these words have already decided her fate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna drinks her tea unhurriedly, the bittersweet tang sliding uneasily down her throat. Whatever herbs she has crushed into it this morning she must never again touch. How silly to insist that she make her own when her head is such a mess. Nevertheless, she drinks the brew with small sips and contemplates the taste as her eyes drift over columns of numbers. Mother is still asleep in her own chamber, no doubt needing as much rest as she can get.

“There is a missive from my lord,” Walys Flowers continues, placing before her a neatly folded parchment. “I took the liberty of ordering the messenger to a meal and bed until an answer has been decided upon.” Strange and stranger still, her father rarely if ever expects her input and when he does it is more a chance to test her as far as she coan make out.

“Very well, good maester.” She unfolds the message and begins reading. It is much as she’d expected, it is another test. She does not mind, for most of these are practical issues one might have to deal with within their own keep. Although applied to a context such as theirs she does find a few choices which she would rather not face. “One grows weary of so much fighting.” Her dispassionate comment elicits a sound of approval from the man at her side. “My lord wishes to know whether I would rather supply the army with more grain or if I should choose to break into our stores for those left behind.” He is not going to get a rise out of her. Long has she grown used to these attempts of his.

Walys reaches out, lifting the quill from the inkwell, holding it between elegant fingers. “And what do you wish to do?” He presses the instrument into her hand. At least there would always be Maester Walys to ask after her wants and needs. A pity his chain binds him to servitude. She makes a thoughtful sound, waiting for the distance between them to grow. Predictably, her expectation is fulfilled.

She never quite manages to give a satisfactory answer as she is once more, predictably, interrupted. Fortunately, the intruder, her lady mother, does not scream and cry for her sister. Unfortunately, she is screaming and crying about some perceived injustice she had suffered under her husband’s hands. The indignity of it is so great that the lady of the house has very few qualms about allowing the servants to hear, and there is quite a number of them gathered in the hall.

Snapping to her feet, Lyanna fairly runs to the door, rushing her mother within and slamming the offending object shut. While her father will never be able to drag her ire into the light, her mother is quite adept at it.

“Enough!” The word cracks with the force of a whip, striking through the nonsensical noise coming out of the woman’s mouth. “I have heard quite enough.”

“But mother, I cannot possibly bear it.” Lyarra lunges herself towards her, arms encircling her thinner frame, holding with such force that for a brief moment the air flees her lungs. “He won’t relinquish that strumpet.”

This is the first time she hears of it. Lyanna breathes in through her nose with some difficulty. She knows that men keep mistresses, it is a common enough occurrence. Those who can afford to set them up are welcomed by such women as would choose the position. Her curiosity gets the better of her and she allows herself to contemplate the possibility. Given that she has seen a number of the records kept by the maester in her time, she knows that if her father does seek such entertainment then it must be under the guise of some other expense. In any event she cannot be certain as to the nature of her mother’s suspicions.

If she is the daughter of half-measures, her mother must have been fashioned in the image of the most determined undecided woman in the history of existence. She doesn’t want this burden. “I want her gone from my house.”

What would grandmother have done? Lyanna finds it a pity she never quite learned the woman. It would have helped tremendously. “And you have decided the best way to go about it is to cause a scene? I wonder at your behaviour.” She would gladly undermine every small sliver of these feelings so readily exposed; the only thing that stops her is the look in the maester’s eyes. And this she only catches because the man moves in her line of sight. “Maester, the lady is weary. Have her taken to her own chambers.”

“I am not even to voice my complaints.” Her eyes meet the glazed gaze of her mother. She understands as those eyes move away from her face that the conversation is no longer held with the illusion of Lady Arya, but with the ghost of her. Whatever memories permeate the fabric of her existence, Lyarra Stark loses her head one again and Lyanna thinks she prefers the cod silences over the dinner table to this. At least that offers the shield of dignity.

Maester Walys somehow managed to subdue the raving woman and leads her away. Tough not before he receives a few scratches for his efforts. For her part, Lyanna keeps away from the lady, content to return to her seat and pursue her father’s missive. The good maester returns with a frown upon his face and a linen square pressed to the wounds.

“Can we not lock her within her own chamber?” It is the sensible solution. “At this point, I do not think it can do more harm.” Even unknowing servants are bound to have realised something is out of the ordinary.

“Certainly not, my lady. My lord would not approve of such treatment.” Then again, her father is not here.

She fiddles with the quill she’s managed to retrieve. “Send my lord father what he asks for.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally this excited about the reference made.
> 
> Explanations will come, ...at some point.


End file.
